Page 127 of Double Puck

"Okay," he finally says.

He backs up a step. Mason takes another piece of bacon before doing exactly the same. They look at each other, understanding mixing with worry or fear, but then they make towards the door.

"For the record, this is the most sure of yourself I've ever seen you." He glances at Darcy. "Whatever you're doing to him in this bed, keep doing it."

"I didn't do anything," Darcy says, and steals my last pancake. "He does it for me."

The door clicks shut behind them as I look at Darcy. She's sitting in my bed with syrup smeared all over her lips, eating stolen pancakes like she owns the place. Like she owns me.

Honestly? Fair assessment.

"You have a meeting in an hour," she says around a mouthful.

"Fifty-eight minutes." I grin and grab the edge of the sheet. "That's basically a lifetime."

"Beck—"

I disappear under the covers, forgetting all about the breakfast that's now probably scattered across the floor. Her laugh breaks off into a gasp, and her fingers find my hair as I descend back to my happy place.

In an hour, my whole life might change.

But right now?

Right now I know exactly where I belong.

I already knew that Vegas doesn't do subtle before I arrived for my meeting, but now, I know…

Neither does my agent.

The private dining room he's booked sits on the fortieth floor of a tower off the Strip, with stunning modern finishings and floor-to-ceiling glass that shows off the desert stretching endlessly beyond the city's glittering sprawl.

A waiter appears with sparkling water and espresso before my ass hits the leather chair, and set out before my eyes, there's a charcuterie board in the middle of the table.

Philip, my long-serving agent, spots me the second I walk through the door and rises from his chair.

"There he is." He spreads his arms wide, gold cufflinks glinting in the light. The man is wearing a suit that could pay off a mortgage. "The man of the hour. Beck, you look great. You get a haircut?"

"I woke up an hour ago, Phil."

"And yet." He gestures at me like I'm a prize calf at auction. "Incredible genetics. Sit, sit."

I drop into the leather chair beside him and turn my attention across the table, where two men are already standing to greet me.

The first one extends his hand—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, the kind of guy who looks like he was born in a boardroom and hasn't left since. "Beck, thanks for making the trip out. I'm Greg, assistant general manager."

"Pleasure," I say, giving him the firm-but-not-trying-too-hard handshake. The one Declan drilled into me when I was fourteen.

God, even here, my brother's fingerprints are on me.

"And this is Shane Webb, our director of player development," Greg says, nodding to the man beside him.

Webb grabs my hand and shakes. Solid grip. Eye contact that says I've watched your tape and I liked what I saw. "Really glad you're here, Beck. We've been looking forward to this."

"Uh, thanks."

Philip clears his throat beside me, and I settle back in my chair, glance at the charcuterie board, and resist the urge to immediately go for the prosciutto.

"So. Beck Morrison." Greg leans back, coffee untouched. "Let me save us all the dance. We watched what your team looked like last night without you. And we've watched your market get very interesting, very fast."